Tales of the Sword Coast
by Track
Summary: Darien Kreshire is forced to leave his childhood home on a journey that will take him far and wide... and reveal a few unwanted truths. -Been awhile, things look kinda grim; but the story's been on my mind. We'll see what happens.-
1. Chapter 1

_**Baldur's Gate  
Tales of The Sword Coast**_

_(Author's note): This, dear imaginary reader, is my attempt at a novilzation of the Baldur's Gate storyline for the purposes of practicing my writing in general. I chose it because of the freedom it allows me to write pretty much whoever and whatever I want, so long as I stick to the general arc. And, well, because I enjoyed the game. There will, obviously, be changes. Things I add, things I ignore, things I alter for no reason other than to poke that part of your brain that makes you make funny noises._

_Okay, not so much on that last part._

_Either way, Baldur's Gate is the property of Wizards of the Coast, Interplay, Bioware, Black Isle... a whole HOST of people. I am not one of them, and in no way seek to profit off of this work. No third parties may post this on their site without my permission, and you can't claim it's yours no matter HOW drunk you get me._

_Enjoy.)_

_**Prologue**_

Jerald Truthsend was a very special man.

He was unique, you see, for the dreams told him so, the voice that guided him. It told him things; showed him things in the deepest corners of his mind that had brought him a measure of luck in the recent past. A line of thinking that had lead to a modest fortune, brought him power and respect that, though modest could only grow, such that he wondered why he had ever feared the voice.

Jerald learned why the day _he_ came. It was like a nightmare, the screams, the crash of heavy wood being turned and broken, the meeting of steel on steel, and the cleaving of flesh and bone. When Jerald could feel his legs again, all he could do was run; flee to the top of the high building; that he had once jokingly called his 'tower placeholder' until he could get a proper abode for one of his destined greatness.

There were nowhere near enough stairs between him and the thing that now pursued him, and inevitably he ran out, bursting through the door leading to the roof and slamming it shut behind him, locking it and making for the edge. It was fenced in; had been since some drunken lout had staggered off of it some decade ago, only, it would seem, to get Jerald killed by not allowing him to try to scale the side of the building back to the ground. He could manage it, he was certain. After all, he was special.

Special and helpless; the latter being a feeling that overwhelmed him, such as he had never imagined when his pursuer burst through the door, reducing it to splinters with a simple kick. He had to duck to get through the door.

He was a nightmare figure, a good seven feet tall at least, clad from head to toe in heavy, darkened steel armor that seemed to absorb what little light the torches cast into the night, making it look almost black as he approached, an affect shared by his sword, a massive length of steel that no normal man could possibly wield one handed as he did. The helm covered all but the area around his eyes, the surrounding steel molded to resemble a set of jagged teeth pointing inward from both top and bottom, the upper corners decorated by long curved horns.

But the worst was the eyes. Surrounding by black markings, like wide vertical scars over each eye, what first had appeared to be intense blue eyes when he had first appeared downstairs was now simply solid, dark, glowing yellow, blotting out all detail, no whites, no iris. Just the sense of his gaze.

It spoke to him, voice deep and hollow, yet somehow gleeful with the joy of the kill. "I will be the _last_... and you will go first."

Jerald found his mouth dry when he tried to speak, stammering, pleading with the only thing he knew to offer, the one thing he had made sure to look into since the voice's words proved sound, "Th-there are others. I-I can show you- please! PLEASE!"

The armored figure didn't respond, save but to move forward, each footfall bringing him closer with a deafening thud. Jerald panicked, turning and grabbing hold of the fencing, shaking it violently yet feeling no give as the behemoth drew ever closer. He had glanced back for only a second, long enough to see the armored man, and the massive fist hurtling towards his face.

The next thing he knew he was on the ground, vision swimming as rain washed away the blood running down his jaw. Cold steel fingers wrapped around his throat, and with a grunt the armored man had lifted him into the air and slammed him bodily through the fencing, holding him one-handed above the city streets so many levels below him.

The figure squeezed slowly, seeming to want to draw out the moment, laughing quietly to himself as his eyes grew ever fiercer in their light. Jerald heard the snap more than he felt it, a deafening crack in the air as his neck as crushed and broken. He stared down at his murderer blankly, mouth moving but making no sound, even as he was pulled back, and then thrown, effortlessly, off the edge of his tower, plummeting lifelessly down to the cold streets of Baldur's Gate.

_**Chapter 1**_

Candlekeep was a fortress, though its contents were nothing as illustrious as gold, treasure, tapestries, or the fabled sword of a dead hero king, as children who heard about it would so often pretend. Rather it was a fortress of knowledge, a library, for lack of a better word, that stretched several levels into the sky, surrounded by high stone walls on three sides, and on the last, and endless stretch of ocean below the cliffs on the west edge of the Sword Coast.

It was a haven for scholars, sages, and those simply seeking silent refuge away from the troubles that occasionally plagued the land beyond the walls, and could muster the somewhat draconian entry rules. A book, of some value or rarity, even if just to Candlekeep's stock, would have to be presented to allow any single person or group entry, however once entry was granted, it was allowed for life. Many schools and organizations had donated such over the centuries, representing the whole of them, rendering the point mostly moot for all but the occasional hopelessly ignorant traveler who knew none of this.

Candlekeep was not heavily populated, but it had its residents; guards, making up the brunt, patrolling the halls and outer walls of the fortress, a number of tutors for those seeking to learn. Inns to house visitors, shops to keep them fed and supplied a modest farm to stock them. And one young man who spent the majority of his time running about making sure that the loose odds and ends all the others couldn't be bothered to handle wouldn't make the entire keep fall apart.

That young man's name was Darien Kreshire; a rather tall individual with short black hair and a reasonably fit build gained from certain aspects of his work; and he had the unenviable task of helping to maintain the keep; keeping things clean, books in order, getting things to people and taking them _back_, and, as we find him, keeping assorted items within reach as they dwindle, a task that involves a great many trips up and down the storage house's ladder, moving crates of varying levels of staggering weight from the upper storage shelf - a long, wide sturdy stretch of wood one could probably live comfortably in were it not usually cluttered - to the lower shelf, a significantly less hospitable, yet equally lengthy area about a foot above ground level.

Gorion, his father who was also a greatly respected mage and - to hear it told - past adventurer of some repute, said it built character. Discipline. Considering that he was one of the heads of Candlekeep, some figured this was mostly to keep up appearances so none would accuse him of offering favoritism to one caretaker or another, or allowing someone to live inside the stone walls without actual use, but Darien himself figured it was fair enough. He had been something of a hellion as a youngster, and caused his father no end of grief, not allowing him much reprieve even during his duties about the keep; without a mother to watch over him in the meantime, he had little choice. Still, Darien liked to think he had matured some in the passing years. This was more, perhaps, than he could say for-

"Whatcha doin'?"

Darien yelped and recoiled backwards as he moved a crate to the side and came face to face with the source of that voice; which was unfortunate considering he was on the upper part of a ladder at the time. As he fell back, he kicked one leg out towards a shelf nailed into the side of the wall, halting his descent for a moment before, with a grunt of effort, he pushed himself and the ladder back into place, gasping with exasperation as he exclaimed, "_Imoen!_"

The girl in question, a petite young woman of about Darien's age, short brown haired dyed a faint shade of pink which she insisted made her look exotic, grinned brightly from ear to ear. "Hey, that was pretty neat! When'd you learn ta do that?"

"You nearly killed me!" Darien seethed.

Imoen waved one hand dismissively, "Oh, posh, you coulda survived that, easy. Besides, if I hadn't shown up, you'd never know you could do that. I've given you a whole new level of self confidence, to carry with you throughout your days into the mists of legend."

Darien counted to three silently, and then heaved a sigh, "What are you doing here?"

"Nearly killing you."

Darien counted to three again, much more slowly this time, and then regarded Imoen levelly. "You're supposed to be minding the shop for Winthrop." Winthrop was a large, rather portly bald man who, as alluded, ran the primary shop in Candlekeep, a man of friendly disposition despite having Imoen for a ward and, after a fashion, adopted daughter.

Imoen sighed and crawled up to the edge of the upper shelf, planting one hand on the edge and kicking herself upward in a brief handstand before letting herself fall forward, twisting in mid air to swing herself onto the lower shelf, sitting comfortably on the edge. "Ol' Puffguts won't be back for awhile, and nuffin' happens on Wednesdays." She said, crossing her legs in front of her, habitually grabbing at her ankles as she rocked back and forth. "And I thought, well, who needs a good scare? Then I thought'a you! Figured you could use it. Ya used ta be fun, ya know? Now you're gettin' all stuffy like Gorion."

Darien gave a short hop, planting his feet on either side of the ladder, and slid down a few rungs so he could peer down at Imoen, half smirking. "I'm still fun. I'm a barrel of monkeys." He reached up, then, and dragged a rather large crate from the upper shelf, hefting it off with a grunt of effort and greater strain as he lowered it mostly to the ground before letting it down with a heavy thud. "I just don't have time to act like it."

Imoen just grinned. "Explains the smell."

Darien stared down at her with the intensity of a tiger about to strike, holding Imoen's gaze for a long, tense moment... before he started laughing so hard he almost fell off the ladder again, his voice soon joined by Imoen's.

Darien had been brought to Candlekeep by Gorion when he was too young to remember a time before being here, the only child in Candlekeep for years until Winthrop came. He was invited here by Gorion to stay, to run the hotel and shop, and settle down after years of traveling; gathering and selling his wares. And with him he brought young Imoen, a street urchin he'd caught trying to steal food from him, and soon took a liking too, eventually taking her in, and, after years on the road together, taking her with him to the Candlekeep. She was a year younger than Darien at most, and quickly became Darien's first, best, and only friend in the keep.

"Well, I'm certainly glad that whatever crippling injury you've received that is keeping you from _working_ has apparently failed to dampen your spirits."

The two of them looked to the entrance to the storehouse to find the source of the voice, one Ulraunt, a balding man who nevertheless kept a trimmed goatee and wore the modestly ornate robes worn by most of the heads of Candlekeep. That he was _the_ head, that is to say, the man most in charge of the keep, did not keep many from placing a great deal more weight on the words of Gorion did little to aid his already sour disposition. "I- I was just-" Darien started to explain, only to have Ulraunt silence him with an irritated wave.

"It doesn't matter. Your father has sent for you; said he wishes to see you; said it was _quite_ urgent..." Ulraunt said in his usual methodical ramble. "I suggest you go see him immediately; and perhaps when you _do_ you can inform Gorion that I am not a _messenger_. We pay people for that."

"Err, thanks." Darien said, though Ulraunt had already turned and left by the time he finished the second word. Darien furrowed his brow thoughtfully. Gorion had been distant in the past few weeks. Usually a patient and kindly man, he had recently taken to locking himself in his study, seeming stressed whenever he came out in public, and short with his responses, though, at least, had not yet taken to rudeness in these responses just yet. A quick look at Imoen betrayed a similar look, though oddly... sad, rather than concerned, a look that so rarely graced Imoen's features that, for a moment, Darien would have had difficulty recognizing her. "Imoen?" He prodded gently, seeming to startle her out of her thoughts. The old familiar smile returned to her face and she waved it off with a short flutter of her hand.

"Aw, go on big guy, better not to keep the old man waiting. The crates'll still be around ta crush ya when you get back." She said, a lopsided grin coming to her face that never failed to inspire a similar look in Darien as he nodded and slid the rest of the way down the ladder. "What'll you be doing, dare I ask?" He said.

Imoen idly kicked her feet over the edge of the lower shelf. "Ohhhh, I dunno, I'll be around."

Darien smirked, "You could always go hang out with the chanters." he suggested, referring to the number of residents who spent a great deal of their time pouring over and reciting the texts of 'The Great' Alaundo, one of Candlekeep's founders, and a self fashioned prophet.

"Oh, Helm!" Imoen exclaimed, putting one hand to her head and rocking back. "No thanks. Plague! Pestilence! Darkness in the land! The Lord of Murder- blah blah blah, call me when they find a more upbeat prophecy."

Darien just grinned, "All right, I'll see you. And have a long, layered, soul crushing lecture ready on the merits of not killing your coworkers." He said, turning on his heel with a quick salute, and pacing out the door.

"You're mutating into a mini-Gorion! It's too late to be saved! Only fire can cleanse you!" She called after him, the smile that lighted her face slowly fading as Darien receded into the distance, ending its life with a long heavy sigh. "... This bites."

_**---**_

"Father?" Darien called quietly as he opened the door to Gorion's study with a long creak. It was something of a trek from the storehouse to the tower proper, four floors above the ground. Long enough that a more irritable man would likely care little for whatever news awaited him.

"Ah, there you are." Gorion said, gesturing him inside with one hand. "Come in, come in." he prodded, a patient smile on his face. His age was showing, lines having drawn itself into the old Sage's face many years ago and found time to settle, the black hair on his head and face having turned mostly gray save but for a few streaks of black. Darien very nearly dwarfed him in height, but never looked bigger by simple fact that Gorion practically radiated a kind of calm power, a wisdom borne of experience. Darien was, by proxy, still a boy.

"I imagine my recent self seclusion has not escaped your notice?" He said slowly, more of a statement than a question which Darien nevertheless answered with a short nod of his head, to which Gorion nodded in turn. "My apologies. Much has weighed on my mind, recently, I'm afraid. A... certain matter has been brought to my attention that required a great deal of thought." He explained quietly before allowing himself a rueful smile, "Though I fear I may have allowed myself nearly too much time to ponder."

"Is that why you called me here?" Darien asked, "You've... concluded your thoughts?"

Gorion regarded Darien quietly for a moment before smiling with a faint nod. "My child, one never _concludes_ their thinking if they wish to achieve anything in this world. It is simply a matter of thinking on your feet, whereas I have been all too idle the past days." He shook his head slightly with a short huff, as though catching himself acting a fool, "But in answer to your question, lad, yes. I have."

He grabbed his pipe off of his desk, taking a deep drag before exhaling a long cloud of smoke, as though prolonging the moment before a task he'd prefer not to perform. "I am leaving Candlekeep tomorrow. And you are coming with me."

The following moment lasted an eternity for Darien, time seeming to freeze around him. His feelings were confused to say the least. He had always been curious, even eager to see the world outside these walls. Gorion had raised him on a thousand tales of heroes and monsters, loyalty and betrayal, lovers and infidels, and had painted a picture of a world rife with wonders and adventure such as the capture the mind of a young child as he was. And while his familiarity with Candlekeep may have been part of this, it _was_ all he knew, and the tone in Gorion's voice carried with it a sort of finality, as though returning were an uncertain prospect. When his voice returned to him, all he could think to do was to question, "Why? Why would we need to leave, where- where do you- we- where are we going?" He would later recall sounding a great deal more alarmed than he would have liked. Though the thought would seem silly to him, given the circumstances.

"That," Gorion answered slowly, "is more difficult a question than you know, boy, and I'm not sure I've yet found the words to tell you what you nevertheless... need to hear. Perhaps when we have settled, and circumstances have changed. Suffice it to say, for now, that it is no longer safe here in Candlekeep. For you." He took another slow drag from his pipe as he let that hang in the air, seeing that his ward was hardly satisfied with that answer. And rightly so. Only a fool would let his curiosity be dampened by such words, and Gorion did not raise one. After a moment went on, "A moving target is infinitely harder to strike than a stationary one. As for where we are going, I can't say, for I have not yet truly decided. North, for now. I have sent notice to some old friends of mine to wait for us along the way. Perhaps Baldur's Gate, with its teeming masses, would offer proper sanctuary. A great deal more difficult to be found, in any case." Gorion mused aloud, giving a bit of a start, as though catching himself a rambling, a realization that may have led to him glancing at his pipe disdainfully and setting it aside on the desk.

Darien was, understandably, a bit overwhelmed. "What danger could possibly reach us in Candlekeep? This place is a fortress; the walls and guards alone..." he reasoned, but Gorion only shook his head.

"Candlekeep is indeed formidable, Darien, but by no means insurmountable... as I have had the misfortune to discover." Gorion trailed off for a moment, meeting the anxious gaze of his son for a moment before standing, "But we've dallied on the subject for long enough. For now, at least. We are wasting time, and you will need to prepare... and rest, for the journey ahead."

Darien wanted to speak, but simply couldn't find the words, his mouth moving soundlessly for a moment before simply moving shut. Gorion saw this, and actually looked apologetic; a rarity in itself. "I understand your concern, and... I'm sorry. I realize all too well I... could have handled the matter better than I have. But what's done is done. Reparations will be made, I promise, and you will not always feel so lost. But for now we simply do not have time. We leave tomorrow at noon. I suggest you pack what you'll need for the trip. And say your goodbyes."

_(Reviews encouraged.)_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

"_Tomorrow?!_" Imoen cried in shock not dissimilar to what Darien himself felt not so long ago, though perhaps a notch or two louder.

Night had fallen and Darien paced back and forth in his room, randomly grabbing and discarding any given knick-knack that caught his fancy, quickly writing them off as less than necessary to a trip outside the walls of Candlekeep. Imoen sat at the edge of his bed, apparently still having yet to grasp the concept of 'personal space' as her hands threatened to rip a clump out of her own hair. "Tomorrow." Darien affirmed distractedly, tossing a bundle of quill pens from one hand to another thoughtfully before pitching it into his open bag. "When I asked him, he said he didn't want to wait any longer than that; said he'd wasted too much time already. I didn't want to push. He seemed... I don't know, _worn out_. He didn't decide this lightly, I gather."

"But why so _sudden?_" Imoen complained, bouncing impatiently on the mattress, "I mean, he couldn't have given you a couple day's _notice?_ Head's up, Darien, your whole life's a'changin'! I mean- it's- it weird is what it is!"

Darien frowned, "I know. It's not like him to act so suddenly. Or to... well, lose himself in thought so long, as I guess he'd done the last little while. All I know is that it's pretty serious." He grabbed a pile of clothing; all neatly folded; a habit Gorion had all but beaten into him; and set it neatly in his bag with a sigh. "I figure he knows what he's doing, though. Don't you?"

Imoen looked at him uncomfortably for a moment before lowering her head with a defeated sigh. "Yyyyeaaah. I _guess_. I just, y'know..." she gave part of her hair an experimental tug, as though to make sure it was still firmly attached, and then let her hand fall to her side limply as she muttered sadly, "I don't want ya ta go."

Darien looked at her, a surprised, if pleased expression coming to his face, a soft smile that, nevertheless, wound up turning into a playful smirk. "Well, little one, if you really want I could ask him if you could come with us on our great journey." He was kidding. Sort of.

Imoen wrinkled her nose at him indignantly, "What's this horse flop now, 'little one'? I'm not much younger than you, y'know." She said, tilting her head back slightly before muttering, "Though ya sure did get _tall_ fast.", putting one hand flat on top of her head before lifting it up to try to reach for the top of Darien's, and failing. In her defense, she _was_ sitting down. "He wouldn't let me go anyway. News he got sounded way too serious."

Darien blinked, "What?"

"_What?_" Imoen echoed, glancing off to the side.

"What would you know about what my father heard?"

Imoen stood suddenly, "Ooooooooohhhh, nuffin', I mean, it's just- I _figured_ y'know, what with- with- _dire tones_ and... orders 'n... whatnot and- MAN, I gotta go, it's late, and Winthrop teases about us enough, y'know, ha ha! I'll see ya off, big guy; maybe make ya a pie or somethin', BYE!"

And the next thing Darien knew, he was staring blankly at the empty doorway Imoen had just occupied after a swift trek during her brief ramble.

It was, he admitted, not much odder than _usual_.

_**---**_

No pie had been produced, but Darien had not really been expecting one, so his disappointment was minimal. She was, however, there to see him and Gorion off, which was well enough so far as he was concerned, along with Winthrop and a few assorted tutors that had befriended or otherwise looked up to Gorion.

"And don't forget to bathe every now and then, or you'll stink like an orc den!"

"Imoen..." Darien groaned,

"What? I'm being helpful! Just go stand outside next time it rains, and-"

"_Imoen..._" This time the voice came in the form of the warning yet amused tone of Winthrop, who tapped her pointedly on the head twice, causing her to rub at the offended spot before giving a helpless shrug and a sigh. "I try. You don't listen, but I try."

Darien just shook his head bemusedly, an odd air about him, sad yet excited. Out with the old, in with the new, for the time being at least, childish thoughts of old tales and open roads in his head that he constantly tried to water down with the likely reality of the trip. Though, when he really thought about it, he rather preferred the fantasies. He winced suddenly, an old familiar feeling coming to him. "To think I may never feel this cold shiver run down my spine again." He said grimly, before turning around to see Ulraunt approaching the group of them, a dark smile on his face.

"So you're really leaving us. I dared not believe it, but here we are. Never really thought it would happen, but... well, no use in dwelling. Darien." He said shortly, turning his head to regard the young man in question, "Seems we'll be short handed for awhile, sadly. I dare say you'll be missed. You could, at least, keep a leash on young Imoen _some_ of the time." He turned to look to Gorion just in time to miss the irritated glare on Darien's face, or the tongue Imoen was sticking out at him.

"Gorion, it's been an experience. Candlekeep will never seem quite the same without your... presence."

Gorion arced one eyebrow briefly, though he had learned a measure of patience when dealing with his theoretical superior. "Quite. Do try, though, to keep Candlekeep in shape in my absence, won't you Ulraunt? I have grown rather fond of the place, and would surely dislike seeing it fall on hard times."

Ulraunt sneered quietly, muttering, "Indeed..." before taking a step back away from the crowd, his verbal stride having taken something of a blow.

"We'd well be off now, child." Gorion said, tapping Darien twice on the shoulder after letting the quiet moment pass; just barely enough time for Imoen to revert back to something resembling a straight face. "... Right." Darien said quietly, stunned for a moment despite himself. He turned back to Imoen, smiling sadly. "I guess this is it, squirt. I'll write you."

Imoen scowled, "You'd darn well better!" she exclaimed, poking Darien in the chest twice before hopping up on her tip toes to peck him on the cheek once before shoving him in the direction Gorion was now walking, a bemused smile on his face.

"Mind your father!" Tethoril, one of Darien's now former tutors called after them, waving with most of the others.

"G'bye! See ya! This- aw- this bites- Hey!" She called as well, muttering the less cheerful part before hopping up, "If you have to come by the coast again, don't forget we can put you up! Good old fashioned rats nest, cheap!"

Imoen promptly got a light whap in the back of her head from Winthrop for her trouble, "Quiet now, girl, my hotel's as clean as an elven arse, and don't you forget it."

Darien snickered quietly despite himself, casting one last long wave behind him before he set out ahead to catch up with Gorion.

As they moved past the open gate, Gorion spoke to his ward, "Now listen, child. If we ever become separated, it is imperative that you make your way to the Friendly Arm Inn; I've marked it on your map. There, I'm assured, you'll find Khalid and Jaheira. They have long been my friends, and you can trust them, if, indeed, I do not reach them first." Darien pondered this a moment, and nodded, replying with a simple, "Got it." though he did not dwell on it, the subject just being a precaution so far as he was concerned. He was much more taken with the sight of the land stretching out before him; open fields dotted with numerous trees. He'd seen the lands outside of Candlekeep a number of times from the walls, but always from above, never from within. Always locked away from them; never wandering over them. This was something entirely new. A bright, weightless feeling he enjoyed, that seemed to call to him from within.

Darien left Candlekeep with a smile on his face.

_**---**_

Behind the duo, watching them shrink into the distance, Ulraunt stood, his expression dower as he motioned Tethoril to come to him, shaking him out of a thoughtful trance as the small crowd dispersed, Winthrop leading a distinctly downhearted Imoen away. "Sir?" said the aging tutor as he drew near, brow furrowed.

"Did you dispose of the body?" Ulraunt asked bluntly, making the old man wince.

"Yes sir, we did. He's gone; buried."

A few days ago, a man had arrived at Candlekeep, somewhat brash and ill mannered; he was nevertheless allowed entrance as he supplied a suitable book to the keep. He had immediately begun asking questions in a manner one can only assume he believed to be subtle. Concerning one Darien Kreshire. When Gorion had learned of this, he looked into it, having already become somewhat paranoid on the subject. When confronted and pressed, the man had attacked Gorion, however foolishly, with a dagger. A nearby guard had made short work of him. In one of the few instances in which the two men agreed, Ulraunt and Gorion had kept the incident quiet so not to raise alarm. It had no doubt prompted Gorion's decision to leave, among other things, which, so far as Ulraunt was concerned, was too long in coming. Moving the body to a proper place out of sight of Candlekeep's inhabitants, and getting it there unobserved, however, had proved quite a chore.

"Good." He said simply, turning to walk away, but stopping with his side to Tethoril. "Tell the guards to keep their ears open. If anyone else comes sniffing, I want to know about it."

He didn't stay to hear Tethoril's response.

_**---**_

Night fell quickly over the Sword Coast, ensnaring the traveling pair within it, Gorion's pace becoming somewhat hurried even as he visibly tired. All told, Darien wasn't feeling his strongest either, though so far as he was concerned he could go on for days more without rest out here. It seemed a bit late in his life to discover he was this easy to please, but he figured he was due a surprise or two after all these years.

It had, however, begun to rain some several minutes before, and seemed to come slowly but steadily harder as time went on. Darien reasoned that this was a point against that feeling of his. Irrationally, he felt the impulse to duck into Candlekeep's main study and keep by the fireplace awhile, allowing himself at least that one moment to miss his old home already.

As Darien slowed for a moment, Gorion called back to him, "Hurry, child, the night can only get worse, and we must find a place to make shelter, soon."

Darien nodded once and regained a bit of speed, speaking up as he walked, "And maybe then you can tell me the reason for this trip?" He prodded, not letting his father forget that eager though he may be, he was not going fully blind. Gorion smiled ruefully. "Don't worry. Your answers will come soon enough." Though for a moment after his spoke, his eyes darted off to the side, peering out into the night silently for a moment before he simply moved on, going completely quiet suddenly as he moved forward, a bit faster than before, enough to put a bit of strain on old bones.

"What, what is it?" Darien asked, but got no answer, left merely to keep up with his old man for several moments as he would occasionally cast his eyes in any given direction, squinting. Focused, though somewhat unsure. Gradually, though, he began to slow, until he suddenly stopped outright, casting one arm out to block Darien's path as he drew a dagger from his belt with the other. "Wait." He said as he did so, eyes sliding from right to left slowly before settling on one spot, his body turning to face that direction. "... We are in an ambush." He said darkly.

Darien didn't know what he was talking about until nearly the last moment, staring intently in the direction Gorion was and seeing nothing; nothing save but for a faint, unexplainable shimmer in the air; intangible movements appearing for an instant at a time in a few separate spots before the empty land it happened in was suddenly inhabited by a number of figures, half hidden in the dark.

There were four of them all together. Two ogres, large, brutish beings, heavy of muscle and light in brains, humanoid save for the awkward way their jaws jutted out, eyes and nose set too closely together, and seeming to sink into their faces. Both wielded spiked maces and grunted eagerly as the stared down at the two travelers.

The third was a woman, armored lightly in studded leather for ease of movement, features exotic and, Darien imagined, rather beautiful save for the black markings over each eye. Like thick vertical scars over each one.

The fourth was a nightmare figure. Armored, head to toe with long spikes protruding from his arms and shoulders, curved horns on top an already high head reaching for the sky. Solid yellow eyes glowing in the night.

And it spoke. "Very perceptive for an old man." His voice was deep, hollow, but smooth. And mocking. It was speaking to Gorion... but he was staring at Darien. "Hand over your ward, and you will be spared. If you resist, it will be a waste of your life."

Darien took a step backward before he had even realized it. A moment later he remembered to breath. Gorion, however, merely scowled, "You're a fool if you think I'd trust your benevolence. Stand aside, and you and your _lackeys_ will remain unharmed."

There was silence for a long moment, broken by a slow dark chuckle emanating from the armored giant as rain hammered the steel encasing his body. "Indeed." He raised one hand slowly, grabbing the hilt of the monstrous sword strapped to his back as he ordered, simply, "Kill them."

The two ogres stalked forward, chortling amongst themselves; slow, stupid beings that nevertheless stood intimidating enough in the night to make Darien retreat backwards a step with each one they took forward. The girl, however, did not move from her spot at the armored behemoth's side, calmly and without fanfare raising a bow level to her chest while drawing an arrow from the quiver on her back. The arrow was knocked back, and released, flying straight and true, directly into Darien's shoulder as he noticed at the last moment and attempt to duck to the side.

He cried out in pain, falling gracelessly to one knee as his free hand grasped at the arrow protruding from his arm. The call was enough to draw Gorion's gaze away from the approaching Ogres, and onto Darien long enough to bark, "Run, boy! Run!"

And with fear in his heart, Darien did; the sounds of battle behind him.

_**---**_

The Ogres were slow; and too sure of their superiority over the old man in front of them. They paid no mind when Gorion began chanting quietly, unintelligible words of incantation, meaningless to most, though it suddenly meant a great deal to them when a ball of searing fire flew forth from Gorion's extended arms, impacting against the first Ogres chest and engulfing him, bringing him to his knees as the flames roared and roasted his flesh, unhindered by the rain.

The expression on the other's face was almost comical as he watched the first fall over, dead; his dumbfoundedness lasting until he again heard the old sage's voice, and saw the light forming between his hands. With a roar it lunged forward, arm pulling back for a mighty swing of it's mace that never came, as a bolt of lightning lanced forth through it's heart from Gorion's hands, the old man only barely stepping out of the way as the Ogre tumbled with his momentum before falling dead in a heap in the mud.

Gorion's eyes remained on its twitching carcass for only a moment before turning back to those who remained, just in time to see the armored giant bearing down on him, only barely moving out of reach as his sword swung through the area Gorion had just inhabited. He recovered fast; too fast for someone his size, quickly turning to where Gorion had moved behind him, pacing backwards as he chanted and released a number of red hot bolts of magical energy at his enemy, each one impacting on his body, yet only slowing his approach as the giant stalked towards him. Wave after wave of these magic missiles flew forth, all hitting their mark, and all failing to do anything more than slow him, the distance between them closing rapidly.

Gorion had always held that nothing was truly unstoppable. His enemy here tonight seemed intent on disproving that theory.

When mere feet separated the two, the strain of his castings written in every line in Gorion's face, he released one more spell, a purple lance of energy that struck the man's armor, and spread over it, shaking every separate piece of the armor until reaching his face, the only partially exposed part of his entire body. The behemoth growled in pain and rage, taking all of one step back and hunching over slightly; still leaving him towering above Gorion, but enough to give him a moment's hope as he stopped, now holding his ground.

The light of another casting formed between Gorion's cupped hands. The behemoth was weakened; he was vulnerable; he was-

He was laughing.

Gorion realized his error a moment too late, eyes widening in the split second before the armored man rose up again with speed impossible for his size; for the weight of the steel encasing him; and effortlessly pushed his sword straight through Gorion's torso with a sickening slice of flesh and blood.

Gorion gasped wetly, blood erupting from his mouth in a heavy cough as his enemy lifted the sword; and Gorion; into the air, pointing them at an increasing angle until Gorion began to slide down the length of the blade, until his torso impacted against the hilt.

The last thing the old sage saw was the mad grin of his murderer, the burning glow of his empty yellow eyes, before he was carelessly cast off of the blade with one mighty swing, his body flying into the earth in an undignified heap.

And there he was left to rot.

Behind him, Darien Kreshire could hear his father's cry, the ungodly loud impalement that ended his life. But he couldn't turn. He couldn't help him.

He could only flee into the dark night.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_

Hand over your ward.

That sentence went through Darien's mind a great many times over the night. If it didn't make him so utterly sick to his stomach every time it did, it could almost be considered a suitable distraction to another fact that would shame and disturb him for far longer. The fact that he had spent the rest of that horrid night hiding. In a bush.

He wasn't sure how long he'd run, only that when he stopped it was because his legs could no longer reliably hold him, much less carry him; to the point where he could barely feel them. It would later occur to him that the arrow the woman buried into his shoulder may have been treated with something; a potion or some form of magic, it mattered not. It was easier to swallow than simple cowardice.

And that's what it was, wasn't it? Simple cowardice. He and his father had been confronted with a threat, and he had run.

Logic challenged this. There were four of the attackers, and only two of them. Gorion was a capable and experienced mage, and Darien had never done more than hold a sword for moments at a time. He had been injured, and Gorion had told him to run.

None of these things matter when your father is dead.

Not when his murderer stalks after you in the night.

Or that was the fear, the nagging in the back of his mind that kept him awake long after his body lost its power. But the armored nightmare never came. It was hours later, when the rain had almost stopped that he realized, almost academically, that there was an arrow in his arm that could probably stand to be removed. The grass was green, the sky was blue, and he had an arrow buried in his flesh.

_Hand over your ward._

Unconsciousness didn't take Darien until he tried to break off the section of arrow that still protruded from his shoulder. He was successful, but at once pain shot through him, sharp, intense, and ultimately overwhelming.

---

It was midday when he awoke, though it was some time before he allowed himself to open his eyes and see it. He felt no brush around him, didn't feel the cold mud that had pooled around him through much of the night. In absence of these things, he was almost able to keep himself from noticing anything else about his situation and allow himself to believe he was still in his bed in Candlekeep, the nightmare of last night merely that.

Then he opened his eyes and found that he had been laid out in a grassy clearing, still outdoors. That his shoulder was bandaged, the remainder of the arrow removed, his clothes, well, still rather messy.

But before all this, he saw Imoen.

He yelped sharply as he first saw the young woman kneeling next to him, brow furrowed ponderously, an expression she quickly echoed as she recoiled backwards, landing on her backside and skittering back a few paces on dragging arms and kicking feet. "Don't _do_ that!" she cried, more out of habit than anything.

"Imoe-OW!" Darien barked sharply as he tried to sit up, his shoulder offering a sudden and rather violent protest that had him grasping at the amateurishly bound wound. The affect this had was not much better, but ebbed away slowly. His attention was more focused on Imoen at the moment.

"What-"

"I was just-

"Why-"

"You were really-"

"How did-"

"STOP INTERRUPTING!"

The last was cried by both in unison, a realization that quieted them both, Imoen casting her gaze off to the side to inspect some imaginary distraction while Darien collected himself. "What are you _doing_ out here?" Darien finally asked.

Imoen dragged one finger against the ground in a tight circle, frowning, "Uhh, well I- y'know- I've... never really been outta Candlekeep, and I guess I thought... hey, if old Imoen pops up in the middle of the wilderness a bazillion miles from home, they'd... uh, they'd have to take her with them, right? Can't go back home..." She sighed unhappily, not taking nearly as great a zeal in her schemes as Darien was used to seeing. "... then I found you here."

Darien just shook his head silently, putting one hand over his eyes briefly. "Unbelievable. How did you even know where we were heading? _I_ didn't even know until we'd already left."

Imoen winced, "I guess I... _sort of_... accidentally... read a letter Gorion got a week or so back. Knew the general direction, so... went that way." She explained with a bit of an apologetic shrug.

Darien just gaped for a moment, repeating, in so many words, "I can _not_ believe this. Of all the irresponsible, stone headed... little... tricks..." Darien trailed off, letting his typical exasperated rant float off into the air as the facts of his situation returned to him. "... Imoen... I'm nowhere near the road to the Friendly Arm. How did you find me at all?"

Imoen swallowed hard then, staring straight at the ground, not out of guilt for anything she'd done, not the petty disappointed of a trick gone awry, just the unpleasant matter of a certain truth. She drew her legs up to her chest, voice oddly quiet as she answered, "I... I knew you weren't on the path anymore. So I went lookin' for ya."

_Hand over your ward._

"... How did you know that?"

Imoen stared at the ground a moment longer and muttered, "... Cuz I found Gorion first."

Darien's blood ran cold then. He'd know Gorion hadn't survived. He knew what he'd heard, and he knew Gorion would have come looking for him if his fate had been any different, but to have it brought back to him felt, irrationally, like a hard slap in the face.

His expression sank, his voice troubled as he asked her, "Where?"

---

Whatever irrational hope Darien had held that what he'd heard last night had been some illusion cast by his fear was dashed when he saw the body for himself. The kindest and wisest man he had ever known lay dead before him. The great sage Gorion, left in a tangled heap of blood and limbs.

"... I'm sorry, Darien." Imoen said solemnly after a long moment of silence, during which Darien did not realize that he had stopped breathing until he took in a shaky gasp of air; startled out of the moment.

Still Darien couldn't find words. Indeed, moving forward seemed quite out of the question at that instant in time. But after a span that was not nearly as long as it felt, Darien asked, tonelessly, "... Did the letter say anything else?"

Imoen seemed surprised by the question, though whether it was because of the disconnect from what she had expected from Darien, or simply being jarred out of the moment is up in the air. "Well, uh, no, not as such. I kinda, y'know... skimmed over it." And truth be told, she'd been rather upset by what she'd found. "But the letter might still be-" she stopped suddenly, wincing at the same moment that Darien's eyes slid shut. "... Might still be on him." Imoen finished, her lack of enthusiasm palpable.

"Okay." Darien said in that same empty tone of voice that Imoen was already learning to hate. "We'll check him."

---

Darien was not a cold person by any means, but the shock of the last twenty four hours was taking something a toll, and at this point he wasn't sure if he was being coldly rational, or letting the whole thing deaden his feelings until the next time his mood swung. Gorion had not prepared him for this situation, but one does not live under the tutelage of one of the most learned men in the Realms without gaining a measure of rationality. He had a destination, he had help waiting for him... and he had a murderer out for his blood. He couldn't waste too much time.

He couldn't stop and weep over a corpse.

Powerful though the impulse was.

But all the clear thinking in the world couldn't have sped the process. Laying out Gorion's corpse and looting it like a pair of petty thieves made both of them ill, but Darien knew better than to leave behind the money Imoen found. A fair amount, enough to hopefully take care of him for a short while. Assuming he found some place to spend it.

Soon enough though, Darien found a note rolled up in one of Gorion's inner rope pockets. He wordlessly held it up, drawing Imoen's attention away from her own search, then unrolled it, and read it aloud:

'My friend Gorion.

'Please forgive the abruptness with which I now write, but time is short and there is much to be done. What we have long feared may soon come to pass, though not in the manner foretold, and certainly not in the proper time frame. As we both know, forecasting these events has proved increasingly difficult, leaving little option other than a leap of faith. We have done what we can for those in thy care, but the time nears where we must step back and let matters take what course they will. We have, perhaps, been a touch too sheltering at this point.

'Despite my desire to remain neutral in this matter, I could not, in good conscience, let events proceed without some measure of warning. The other side will move soon, and I urge thee to leave Candlekeep this very night, if possible. The darkness may seem equally threatening, but a moving target is much harder to hit, regardless of how sparse the cover. A fighting chance is all that can be asked for at this point.

'Luck be with us all.

'I'm getting too old for this.'

"... It's signed 'E'. That's it." Darien finished, his voice unsteady. So his father knew that something was coming - coming for Darien - and what's more, some outside source knew as well. But what was there to know about _him_? Who could possibly wish him harm, and why? Who could be so determined that not even the fortress walls of Candlekeep were considered capable of keeping one young man safe? The questions troubled him, more so that the answers were so elusive.

Imoen watched these thoughts play out across Darien's face with a troubled expression before breaking the silence. "What _happened_ out here?"

Darien didn't seem to hear her at first, but looked up at her slowly, simultaneously rising to his feet. "We were attacked during the night." _Hand over your ward._ "Two ogres, a woman, and some... _thing_ in heavy armor, of a design I've never heard of." Darien sighed and paced a few steps away from the body, shaking his head. "I was hurt... father told me to run. Obviously he killed the ogres," he said, gesturing towards the two large corpses littering the field, "The woman isn't here, so she must have left with the man. The man..." Darien fell silent, and nodded his head at Gorion's body; more specifically the thin but incredibly tall line pierced into his abdomen.

Imoen gulped and stood up, glancing at Gorion anxiously before stepping around him and towards Darien. From the note she could gather easily enough that they were after _him_, and a lifetime around him told her easily enough that this weighed heavily on his mind. On top of so much else. "What are you gonna do?" She asked. "You... you gonna go find him?"

Darien closed his eyes, bringing one hand to his forehead as he spoke. "I don't know. I... Helm, I'd like nothing more than to see that creature rot." His arm fell to his side, "... But I'm no fighter. And not even... not even he could kill him." Darien's gaze found its way to Gorion once more... and there it lingered, his expression slowly giving way, chipping past the stone it had tried to set itself in.

_Hand over your ward._

With a sharp hiss of breath, Darien collected himself. He couldn't afford this. He couldn't afford to be weak. The reality of the situation was clear enough, as he soon expressed, "It doesn't matter." He said, considering his departed father a moment longer before turning away. "Sooner or later... I imagine he'll find _me_.

"Imoen... thanks. Thanks a lot. But I... I need to go now. You should head back to Candlekeep."

Darien's solemn mood was shaken somewhat by the sudden snort Imoen gave.

"_Leave?_" Imoen blurted, like it was the silliest thing she'd ever heard. "Leave you all alone to wander with your- your long-winded speeches an' moody... intospactive... buffleheadedness?"

"Introspective." Darien said automatically.

"See? That! Right there! You'll drive _yourself_ crazy _way_ before anything _interesting_ happens to ya! Hah! Leave! You'll have to beat me off with a stick now!"

Darien just shook his head slowly, trying very hard to be patient under the circumstances. "Imoen, you heard the letter. This could be dangerous."

Imoen shrugged jovially. "I can take care of myself, thank you very much. Better 'n you, anyhow."

Darien opened his mouth, and immediately saw four thousand counters rear up from Imoen's smirking face before words were even traded. He pondered, opened his mouth again... and got much the same result.

Hopeless.

"... _Fine._ Fine. But the first time you do something stupid and get yourself into trouble, you're going back home, even if I have to knock you out and _mail_ you there."

"Please, when have I _ever...?_" She grinned.

The moment hung in the air between them as a slow smile forced its way onto Darien's face. But like all things, the moment passed. Darien's gaze flickered, and Imoen followed it back to Gorion. "Should we... y'know... bury him?" She asked tentatively, glancing back at Darien.

Darien looked past her, silently pondering the question he had just as recently asked himself before shaking his head. "... No. No tools. No time. I..." He started to speak again, then thought better of it and turned away. "Let's go." He said, and began to walk down the very road he'd been following before the nightmare that left him orphaned in the wild.

Imoen watched him go for a moment, seeming, for a moment, reluctant to follow despite her words. But Imoen was not afraid to leave; she had no desire to leave her friend alone. It was instead the _wrongness_ of this. Leaving him there. But try as she might, she couldn't argue the point. Smiling sadly, she offered a brief wave, speaking softly, "... G'bye Mr. Kreshire..." before following after her departing friend.


End file.
